


Through the Ruins (Trying to Save It)

by anextraordinarymuse (December_Daughter)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, depictions of panic attacks, depictions of ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:02:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5018500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December_Daughter/pseuds/anextraordinarymuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma has been dropped out of a plane (twice), contracted an alien virus, nearly suffocated at the bottom of the ocean, gone undercover in Hydra, and survived six months alone on another planet.<br/>The hardest thing she's ever had to do is learn to overcome the demons within her.<br/>After Fitz brings her home, the real work begins: Jemma claws her way through the ruins of her life to build a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Ruins (Trying to Save It)

**Author's Note:**

> Well hello! This is my first time writing for the S.H.I.E.L.D fandom. I hope I do the characters justice, and that you enjoy the story.

Fitz barely tastes the beer as it slides down his throat. He hadn’t intended to grab it, really, but he’d opened the fridge door and Coulson’s voice had been a litany of _PTSD_ in Fitz’ head, so he’d pulled the bottle out and retreated to the couch.

Jemma Simmons has PTSD. Fitz isn’t surprised, and he doesn’t think anyone else is either, least of all Jemma herself. She’d given Andrew permission to share her diagnosis with the team because, as Andrew had pointed out, an important part of her healing process would depend on how well those around her responded to whatever future situations might arise. They are all determined to do their best for Jemma.

Still, those four letters stomp out a petulant tune in Fitz’ mind. Jemma and PTSD? He hates it, not because he thinks that there is something wrong with her, or that the illness makes her somehow less, but because nothing so dark belongs within someone so bright. Two years ago, Jemma had been so excited to be in the field, so full of curiosity and wonder at each new discovery. Seeing her wary and distrustful now is painful.

Fitz takes another pull from his beer; it’s been a long six months, and only now that Jemma is home does he allow himself to truly acknowledge the weight of them. No, that’s not entirely true: he’d given in once before and taken a shotgun and a heart full of grief stricken rage to the monolith. He would have pulled that thing apart piece-by-piece with his bare hands after he pulled Jemma from it, if it hadn’t blown itself to bits before he could.

Fitz leans forward and sets the beer down on the table in front of him in favor of bracing his elbows on his thighs and dropping his face into his hands.

How can he protect Jemma from the monsters when they are in her mind, where he has no power and no reach?

“You did it.”

Fitz raises his head to find Bobbi standing nearby, a beer in her hand.

“You found her,” the blonde continues. “You jumped through a portal into an alien world with no way of knowing what you’d find on the other side, and brought Simmons home.”

“It sounds crazy when you say it like that,” Fitz grouses.

“It was crazy,” Bobbi counters. “You could have died, Fitz. What you did was stupid, but it took a lot of courage.”

Fitz considers that. Did it take courage to do what he did? No; not when the possibility of Jemma waited for him on the other side. Nothing in the world could have enticed him to act differently, and courage had nothing to do with it.

_Only love can make a man so stupid._

“That wasn’t courage,” Fitz replies. He sighs and rubs his hands together between his parted knees. Desperation to find his missing piece, yes; fear of facing a world in which he was alive and the woman he loved wasn’t. “And I didn’t do it alone,” he adds.

Bobbi nods in agreement. “Maybe not all of it, but enough of it.”

“Thank you, Bobbi. For everything you’ve done for me these last few months; covering for me with Coulson.”

Bobbi grins sardonically. “Stopping you from beating yourself bloody against a giant rock. I had help with that one, though. Still, the shotgun was a nice touch. Very dramatic.”

Fitz isn’t expecting the dry humor and it forces a surprised huff of laughter from his throat.

“Shotgun?” a new voice queries.

Bobbi and Fitz raise their heads. Jemma and Daisy are in the doorway, and Fitz can tell from across the room that the bright lights and rush of sensory input is wearing on Jemma. She looks exhausted.

“Never mind, it’s nothing,” Fitz says quickly. “Dr. Garner gone?”

“Not quite. He wants to talk to you, actually.” Daisy smiles reassuringly.

“Oh. Right, well.” Fitz stands and nods a goodbye to Bobbi before leaving his half-finished beer and crossing the room toward Jemma and Daisy.

Jemma tells herself that she will let Fitz walk by, that she will not delay him in any way. She knows that Skye – Daisy cares about her and will take care of her, and that she is (relatively) safe here. She doesn’t need to accost Fitz.

She almost succeeds. The closer Fitz gets, though, the more aware Jemma becomes of how unsteady she feels when they’re apart; knowing that he’s in the same building is not enough. Jemma feels untethered without him, uncertain of the ground she stands on and the things she sees.

She can only know this is real when Fitz is near.

He is almost passed them when Jemma’s hand shoots out and latches around his wrist. Fitz stops immediately, and the moment is a mirror of that one all those months ago when she’d stopped him and said, maybe there is, and changed the course of their relationship all over again. The memory is sharp and Jemma is raw; it stabs painfully at the space between her ribs.

“I …” she begins, and can’t finish. The words are slippery in her mind and the sentence won’t come together.

Jemma’s hand slackens and starts to slide down his wrist, but Fitz catches it in his and wraps his fingers around hers. “Come on,” he urges gently.

Fitz turns right instead of left, and Jemma stalls. “Andrew,” she manages.

“Can wait,” Fitz answers.

Jemma’s heart swells, and she falls into step with Fitz as they make their way back to her room.

Daisy waits until they’ve disappeared from her line of sight to turn her attention to Bobbi. “I hope I’m lucky enough to find someone who loves me like that one day,” she murmurs.

Bobbi smiles tenderly and makes no reply.

 

* * *

 

Jemma dreams of her name; over and over again she hears it ring out in her mind, but the word means less to her than the voice that utters it, because it belongs to Fitz. She sees herself in her mind’s eye reaching for her salvation with dirty, dusty fingers, and feels Fitz’ fingers slide roughly against hers. She watches in horror as he is pulled away from her.  
Jemma lunges for him, and wakes as her limbs catch on something heavy and her waist is cinched tight. She struggles forcefully and scrambles for a scream.

“Jemma!” Fitz calls. “Jemma, it’s me!”

She hesitates and the world begins to right itself. Jemma is draped over Fitz’ lap, half hanging over the edge of her bed; Fitz has caught her around the middle in an attempt to keep her from hitting the floor face first. He is solid and warm against her; his back is propped up against the wall and his legs are stretched out in front of him on the bed. Her bed. They are in her room; Fitz blew off Dr. Garner to bring her here, and she fell asleep with her head on his leg (again).

“Fitz.” Her throat hurts and her voice sounds as though she’s been chewing gravel, but she gets his name out just the same.

Jemma pushes off the side of the bed as Fitz pulls her up. She braces a hand against his chest and refuses to acknowledge the sting of tears, but one falls anyway. The air in her lungs is thin and ineffective. Beneath her hand, Fitz’ heartbeat is only a second or two slower than her own.

She has frightened them both awake.

Her throat closes against the sorrow and regret; Fitz drapes a hand over hers where it rests on his chest.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’re safe, Jemma.”

Jemma collapses into his chest as the tears take over. Fitz tightens his hand over hers and wraps an arm around her shoulders as he slides slowly down the bed, until they are both lying down. His breath is warm as it pushes through her hair.

She cries herself to sleep, and not once does Fitz let go of her.

 

* * *

 

For as long as she can remember, a science lab has been home to Jemma. At the Academy, on the bus, on the Playground … the beakers and vials and various pieces of technology have always filled her with a sense of peace and purpose, but not anymore.

The lab feels alien. Too bright, too loud, too busy; her workspace feels impersonal when Fitz shows it to her. For the first time (ever, perhaps), Jemma doesn’t want to be in the lab.

The lab doesn’t reassure her, but Fitz’ hand in hers does. He leads her away at a leisurely pace – “I hope you’re not too disappointed,” she says, and he assures her that he isn’t – and this is the same at least. This is Fitz by her side, steady and sweet and safe. She knows that it’s hard for him because she’s been in his shoes, but he does his best not to let on. For the most part, he succeeds.

Fitz excuses himself after a while. Jemma assures him that she’ll sleep – though that’s all she’s done since she’s been back – and does.

She wakes with a jarring motion, which is more normal now than Jemma wants to think about. Her nightmares exist in shades of blue: sandstorms with sideways winds, and dark water that obscures the open sky; she is running across alien terrain, and swimming away from the bottom of the ocean; she is alone, and dragging Fitz by the collar.

“New trauma has a way of waking old traumas,” Andrew Garner had explained.

Even ghosts don’t want to be alone, Jemma thinks.

These ghosts will never leave her.

 

* * *

 

Fitz is different now. They all are, of course; it’s one of the truths of losing six months of your life. Nothing stays the same. Jemma knows that entropy is the one constant of the human condition, and that if she has changed then it is ridiculous to assume that her friends have not; seeing it is strange, though, and different.

Daisy has really come into her own in Jemma’s absence. She moves with purpose, and an ease that comes from a true sense of self. It’s not just that she knows where she’s going, and how to navigate the Playground; it’s the confidence she has in knowing where she is and where she belongs. Daisy moves like she’s home, and Jemma is envious.

Bobbi is as confident as ever. She’s in the lab a lot, or doing her physical therapy; she smiles at Jemma more often than not, and her constant good moods and steady character are reassuring to be around. There’s a clear and easy bond between Bobbi and Fitz that Jemma can’t help but wonder about: what have they done and been for each other in her absence? Their dynamic is something between siblings and partners, and just natural enough to cause Jemma pain. After all, it’s not wholly unlike her early relationship with Fitz.

Fitz is the one who has changed the most, though. His hand doesn’t shake like it used to; he doesn’t struggle for his words as much. He’s unsure, but that seems to only happen around Jemma. He’s comfortable in the lab and around the team; it’s both the same and different than it was before. There is a forcefulness to him now that wasn’t there when Jemma … disappeared. That hurts, too: knowing that Fitz has blossomed in her absence, become harder and older and who knows what else.

Jemma is pleased and infinitely saddened by the realization of all that she’s missed.

Her friends have grown, and she … she has unraveled. Her feet are firmly planted back in square one, and Jemma really, _really_ hates square one.

 

* * *

 

PTSD is unpredictable. Jemma is never free of it, but some days it’s more aggressive than others. The nightmares are a staple of her nights, and sometimes her thoughts fill up with dark thoughts and grim memories that block out everything else. Mostly it focuses on the alien planet: she’ll grit her teeth and imagine that there are fine grains of sand between them, or hear strange tittering and wailing from behind her when she’s alone. Sometimes, though, the thoughts are more abstract: everyone pities her, and despises her brokenness, and wishes she were someone she’ll never be again. Worse than that, though, are the moments when she looks at Fitz and hallucinates blood on the side of his face, and his arm in a cast that is long gone, and his body lying prone in a hospital bed.

Jemma has a hard time not feeling like her brain has betrayed her.

She has been home for two weeks when her ghosts drag her under the surface. A panic attack, Dr. Garner will tell her later, and Jemma will nod and say, “yes, of course,” because it makes perfect sense. That only happens later, though.

Jemma’s world has been small and insulated since her return, by her choice and everyone else’s. Fitz is always around, and Bobbi and Daisy can often be found with her as well. Coulson visits when he can, but that’s about it in the circle of Jemma. May and Hunter are out on a mission, Fitz tells her, and if Mack is around then he’s either busy or avoiding her.

Until, one day, he isn’t.

Jemma is in the common room with Fitz, who has just brought her a cup of tea, when a familiar face rounds the corner. May’s presence is unexpected, but Jemma’s heart soars immediately. May smiles at her – really smiles – and Jemma rises from the couch and crosses the room quickly to hug her. May holds her tighter than she ever has before and it makes Jemma’s bottom lip tremble.

“I’m glad you’re back,” May says quietly. “We missed you.”

Jemma leads the way back to the seating area, where Fitz is smiling at May and offering a hello.

“Impressive,” May replies with an arched eyebrow. She’s clearly referencing his rescue of Jemma.

Fitz shrugs off the praise. “Necessary.”

Mack turns the corner into the room just then, and Jemma stiffens automatically. She doesn’t know why; she doesn’t even realize that it’s happened until Fitz casts a curious glance at her.

“What was necessary?” Mack asks easily. “Welcome back, May.”

May nods at him in thanks.

“Bringing Jemma home,” Fitz answers. He says it like he went grocery shopping instead of through a portal to an alien planet.

Jemma’s muscles have already clenched, and there’s a flood of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her chest feels tight and her lungs empty; her skin is starting to itch.

“It was reckless,” Mack chides without heat. He’s looking at Fitz. “That portal could’ve taken you anywhere.”

Her blood is roaring in her ears. All at once Jemma is aware of the ruthlessly bright lights, and the scratch of fabric as the people around her shift; she hears Mack’s voice in her head saying, “because I heard he told you how he felt, and you bailed.” Jemma doesn’t know why the memory surfaces: she likes Mack well enough, and they certainly aren’t enemies. His words might have hurt her at the time, but she’d brushed it off (and forgiven him for the assumption). There’s no reason for the memory to float suddenly to the forefront of her thoughts and bear down on her, filling her mind with venom.

Jemma looks Mack in the face and sees judgment; she hears his words then, and his words now, and they spit accusations at her that she can’t defend against. _You hurt him_ , the imaginary words whisper, _you put him in danger. You make him worse._

She can’t breathe. Her heart is going to explode in her chest, and her stomach is a black pit of fear and worry and denial; Jemma begins to shake and her mouth falls open to suck in air that won’t stay in her lungs.

“Jemma?”

She turns to look at Fitz; his shirt is blue, and Mack’s disapproval is burning a hole through her chest, and there is howling in her ears.

“I didn’t,” Jemma murmurs. Her hands shake and she pulls at her fingers.

“Didn’t what?” Fitz asks in confusion.

Blue, his shirt is blue, and the water is blue, and the world is blue; her mouth is full of sand, and the water presses on her chest and tries to push out all of her air. Fitz’ expression is frightened.

“I didn’t,” Jemma says faster. “I didn’t run away, Fitz. I mean, I did, but not from you, I didn’t want to make you worse, I didn’t …”

There’s a clanging sound from somewhere down the hall, and Jemma’s hold on the present falls away. Something is behind her, pursuing her, hunting her; she turns and makes a run for the door, but it’s blocked. She is trapped.

Jemma chokes on a scream. She shakes until her bones rattle and her eyes burn against tears and the sand that isn’t there. She drops onto her heels, knees tight to her chest in the smallest crouch she can manage and her eyes squeezed shut.

“Jemma!”

She’s screaming, “No!” as Fitz’ hand slams down on the defibrillator and blows the seal; she’s screaming, “Fitz!” as they reach for each other through the wind, as he is forcefully pulled away from her. She’s screaming and there is no sound, no words, and no relief.

“Jemma!”

The room begins to re-materialize around her after an eternity. Windows and doorways, counters and brick walls, cement floors; there’s no wind, or sand, or water. The black wall blocking the door solidifies and reveals itself not to be a wall at all; it’s May.

The last thing Jemma becomes aware of is the yelling.

“You’re making it worse!” Fitz is yelling. “Let her go!”

“She doesn’t know where she is, Fitz!” That’s Mack. “If May lets her go she might hurt herself, or someone else.”

“She’s not a threat! She’s frightened, not dangerous.”

“You don’t know that!”

The adrenaline abandons her and her limbs feel heavy; her tears leave trails of sensitive skin in their wake. She sags against her knees and tries to gulp down the air before finally opening her eyes. May has left her spot at the doorway and moved closer, but she is still several feet away. Her expression is as serene as always.

“Jemma?” May’s voice is quiet and steady. She’s apparently chosen to ignore the men completely.

Jemma swallows. “I … I’m so sorry.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“The Playground.”

May offers her a smile. “Good.”

“I don’t know what happened,” Jemma whispers.

“That’s okay.”

Behind her, Fitz is yelling at someone else. He’s telling them to go – “Get the bloody hell away,” specifically – and Jemma raises her eyes to the door to see that her screaming has drawn a crowd. Bobbi pushes her way through the onlookers and into the room. She approaches behind May, and Jemma can see her face: concerned more than frightened.

“What happened?” She addresses them all.

Fitz is on the warpath, though. He’s obviously distressed and Jemma expects to hear him stutter, to hear gaps between his words as he tries to remember which ones he wants, but neither of those things happens.

“Stay the hell away from her,” Fitz snaps fiercely.

“Fitz, calm down,” Bobbi placates. “We’re not gonna hurt Simmons, okay? We care about her too.”

Jemma, still crouching in the middle of the room, begins to unwrap herself.

“Fitz.” Her voice is hoarse but he hears her immediately and spins on his heel.

“I’m here, Jemma.” He’s frozen between reaching for her and letting her come to him.

Jemma knows that feeling, that sharp pull of opposing desires.

“Can you help me up?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

He’s there in a heartbeat, both hands wrapped around her biceps as he helps her to her feet. Jemma’s head is pounding, but this time the cause is a headache and not an impending meltdown. She blinks and sees again the blue of Fitz’ shirt; it has a soft plaid pattern, actually, two shades of blue and a white that she either forgot or didn’t notice before.

She can’t face him. “I’m sorry. I …”

Fitz pulls her into his chest and wraps both arms around her back. Jemma falls into him and rests her cheek against the pocket of his shoulder. Fitz turns his face toward her, his lips barely brushing the skin in front of her ear as he speaks.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Jemma.” There’s so much conviction in his voice that it’s hard not to believe him.

Jemma breathes as deeply as she can, and each pull of air brings the smell of Fitz with it. He’s warm against her and his arms are solid. One of his hands is rubbing her back soothingly. Jemma closes her eyes and forces away the thoughts overcrowding her brain. She tries to forget that there is anyone in the world but them. It’s just her, and Fitz, and they are safe.

Jemma wishes with all of her heart that it were true.

 

* * *

 

Whether it’s Coulson or May that pull the strings Jemma’s never certain of; three days after her meltdown, Andrew Garner sets up temporary shop in the Playground. Jemma is grateful until she realizes how hard Andrew makes her work, and how uncomfortable and often painful that work is.

He makes her talk about everything. Well, “makes” isn’t the right word. More than one session passes in which neither of them speaks, because Jemma refuses to expand on her experiences and Andrew is clearly determined to wait her out. It’s not that Jemma doesn’t want to get better, because she does; she just doesn’t know how to talk about the things that she went through, that still haunt her dreams and cloud her mind.

There’s no telling how long their stalemate would have lasted if Jemma had never found the footage.

She’s not entirely sure that she does find it, truth be told, so much as that it’s given to her. Jemma returns to her room one evening and finds a DVD on her bed. There’s no case and nothing to tell her what it is. The evening is still early and Fitz is in the lab running diagnostics on something for Coulson, so Jemma is alone.

(She knows that Fitz will be at her door soon, a few hours maybe, intent on checking on her and making her eat and maybe sitting quietly on her bed working on a project while she sleeps.)

Jemma studies the unmarked DVD and wonders why it’s here, and who left it. She debates on whether or not to see what’s on it, but the curiosity finally gets to her. She pulls her laptop off the desk and over to the bed, where she pops the DVD into the reader and waits for the files to auto-populate.

There’s only one file and it’s not titled. Jemma clicks on it, which proves to be a terrible decision.

Her heart drops out of her chest when the video starts. The room is empty save for the large, unmoving monolith in a case in the middle of the room. The sight of it is awful. She doesn’t look at it long, though; a few seconds pass and then the door busts open loudly, and it’s so unexpected that Jemma jumps. Fitz appears in the video quite suddenly, shotgun in hand. He shoots the door to the monolith twice without flinching and then throws the gun off to the side.

Jemma’s not breathing. Her heart might not even be beating anymore. She watches Fitz step slowly into the box; she can hear his voice but not his words, and then she can hear everything.

“Do something!” Fitz screams on the video. He screams it again, and again, and he pounds on the still face of the monolith and comes undone. Bobbi, Mack, Hunter, and Daisy rush into the room; Mack grabs Fitz and throws him out of the box as the others slam the door.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Mack thunders.

Fitz is in shambles on the floor. “I can’t give up. I won’t.”

Jemma slams her computer closed and sobs uncontrollably. She lays down on her side and curls into herself as Fitz’ yells reverberate in her mind. _“Do something!”_ She feels like he’s talking to her.

She cries herself to sleep and dreams of the people they used to be; of laughter and pulling pranks on Daisy and the youthful joy that they’ll never feel again.

 

* * *

 

A month after Fitz brings her home, Jemma wakes from a nightmare and takes a shower. She foregoes the zippered sweater she’s worn constantly and puts on a blouse instead; she leaves her hair down. She doesn’t bother with makeup.

Fitz is in the kitchen making tea when she enters. He glances up and his expression goes slack; he’s clearly surprised to see her up and dressed so early.

“Morning,” Jemma greets softly.

“Morning,” Fitz replies. His eyes sweep over her. “You look nice.”

For once the flush in her body is warmth and not anxiety. “Thank you. Is there enough for me?”

“’Course.”

Fitz fixes her a cup of tea with the ease of familiarity. Jemma watches him as he does so, reveling in the steadiness of his hands. He’s come so far, and she’s so proud of him.  
She’s missed him more than she can ever articulate.

“What are you working on?” Jemma inquires as Fitz hands her a cup of tea.

Fitz hesitates. Jemma waits and keeps her expression open and curious; some of the curiosity is forced, but she’s determined. She’s not as interested in science as she should be, and used to be – Dr. Garner assures her it’ll come back as she heals – but she is interested in Fitz.

He starts to explain what he’s doing, and, honestly, she has a harder time concentrating on the words than she wants to admit. What she doesn’t have a hard time concentrating on is Fitz: the spark in his eyes and energy in his motions as he gets lost in talking about the work he loves.

The longer she listens, however, the more Jemma gets pulled in. There is something magnetic about Fitz and his excitement; maybe it’s the thought of the amazing things they’ve done together, or the powerful reminder of their shared love of science, or the simplicity and normalcy of doing this with him again; whatever it is, Jemma finds it easier to follow what he’s saying as the minutes pass.

“Would you … would you like to come to the lab with me?” Fitz offers after a while. “I could show you the new prototype I’ve been working on.”

Jemma almost refuses. The lab is still uncomfortable territory.

“Of course I would,” Jemma says instead.

Fitz’ face lights up. That’s enough to make Jemma stand and walk with him to the lab. She pauses in the doorway, her nerve endings lighting up a little in anticipation of discomfort. Fitz stops with her.

“It’s okay,” he tells her softly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Jemma sweeps her eyes over the lab. She hasn’t been here since that first time Fitz led her around, before her public meltdown.

_Do something!_

Jemma breathes deeply. She slips her hand into Fitz’ larger one and sees the surprise on his face. Then the corner of his mouth quirks upward and he squeezes her hand.

“Show me,” she says.

She stays in the lab with him for a few hours, until her scheduled appointment with Dr. Garner. Jemma shows up early for that.

“How are you today, Jemma?”

She doesn’t want to lose her nerve, so Jemma says, “it was mostly barren. The planet. There was very little flora, and no fauna. The color spectrum was different; everything was blue, like an eternal twilight.”

Jemma’s heart is beating too fast and her words trip over each other a little, but she forces them all out. Across from her, Dr. Garner nods seriously, but his eyes are shining.

 _Do something!_ Fitz’ voice screams in her mind, so she does.

 

* * *

 

Jemma finds a new routine. She spends more and more time in the lab, near Fitz, and bit by agonizing bit she begins to heal. At first she just soaks in Fitz and his enthusiasm, his solidity, his steadiness; she learns the new parts of him that have come into being in her absence, and delights in them. He’s no longer the tender young man from the Academy. He’s still sweet, and thoughtful, but he has sharp edges now.

They both do.

Fitz revives her curiosity. His questions challenge her, and goad her into finding an answer. Bobbi, who is frequently in the lab, bounces ideas and theories off of Fitz, who runs with them; Jemma falls into their orbit.

Daisy makes her marathon Disney movies and eat ice cream with her. She doesn’t correct Jemma if she calls her Skye; she hugs her often and without reason.

There’s nothing easy about it. Some days Jemma can only manage a few sentences in Dr. Garner’s office before she starts crying; the lights and sounds of the lab still overpower her sometimes; she has so many panic attacks that she forgets what life was like without them (though none are so bad as that first one). Everyone is there for her through it all, and none more so than Fitz.

Fitz checks on her often, though they are together more often than not. His touch helps with the panic attacks, and it’s not odd to see them holding hands or holding each other. There is something grounding about Fitz’ hugs: when Jemma feels like she’s falling apart, or the anxiety is going to make her explode, Fitz’ arms are what hold her together.

Jemma has a nightmare so powerful one night that it sends her into an anxiety attack, which is what wakes her. She paces her room for several minutes in an effort to work through it. When that doesn’t help she tiptoes from her room and heads straight for Fitz’. She knocks; Fitz is squinting in sleepy confusion when he opens the door.

“Jemma?”

She tries to answer but can only manage to blow out a breath. Fitz practically drags her into the room – it’s still dark and quiet inside, and his covers are thrown back – and Jemma waits for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light again.

“Breathe,” Fitz commands in a soft voice. He puts both hands on her shoulders.

Jemma nods and tries to listen, but her lungs stutter and drag as they expand. Fitz grabs one of her hands and puts it against his chest so that she can feel it rise and fall with each breath.

“With me,” he says. “Breathe when I breathe.”

Jemma does. She focuses on the timing and rate of his breathing, matches the expansion of her lungs to his. His heartbeat beneath her fingers is relaxing.

“Better?” Fitz asks after some time.

“Better,” she affirms.

“Would you …” he starts. “I could … that is …”

Jemma smiles and passes him to climb into the bed. The sheets have cooled but the pillow smells like his soap. She sighs and scoots back as Fitz follows suit and climbs in. The bed is a little small for two people, perhaps, but she doesn’t care.

Jemma slides into Fitz’ space. He’s on his side facing her, and he holds up the arm he isn’t lying on in invitation. She slides closer, until their chests are nearly pressed together, and turns her face up so that her nose is just brushing the underside of his chin. Slowly, Fitz lowers his arm and settles it in the dip of her waist. He pulls the blanket over them.

Fitz is almost asleep again when Jemma says, “I didn’t leave because I thought you were worthless, and I didn’t leave because of what you said. I left because I made you worse. I thought leaving would help you.”

“You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

“Because of you.”

“No, Jemma, you’re here because of you. You never gave up.” 

“Neither did you.”

“I’ll never give up on you, Jemma.”

* * *

 

 

After that night, it becomes increasingly harder for Jemma to swallow the words. They are a weight on her tongue; they are effervescing bubbles in her stomach that try to climb out of her throat when she is with Fitz.

Jemma loves him; she is in love with him. She’s known since that day a million years ago when she’d grabbed his hand and said, “maybe there is.” The universe has transpired against them, and their foundation has been shaken time and again, and their limits have been tested and redefined so extensively that Jemma’s not sure they exist anymore.

Through it all, that love has remained. Steady, faithful, patient; missing the window time and again, but always waiting for the next.

Jemma tries to tell him. She forgets the words, or they stick to the roof of her mouth, or the moment is interrupted; she gets out the first word – “I …” – and is struck by a fear so powerful that it chokes her.

“I don’t know what to do!” Jemma complains to Dr. Garner one day. She’s put off saying anything because it’s private, because she wants Fitz to hear it first, but Dr. Garner will be leaving the Playground in a few days and if Jemma doesn’t ask him for help before then she might never get the words out. “Why can’t I tell him? What’s terrifying about I …” and her throat promptly closes.

Dr. Garner doesn’t laugh at her. He doesn’t seem surprised by her inability to say I love you.

“Fear is a powerful tool, Jemma,” he says. “It’s an effective conditioner, psychologically and physiologically. The first time Fitz confessed his feelings for you, you both nearly died. Fitz was in a coma, and when he woke up, he wasn’t the same. Fast forward a year and he finally asks you on a date, only for you to be transported to and stranded on an alien planet. Whether you’ve wanted it to or not, your brain has learned to associate any romantic overtures where Fitz is concerned with moments of great fear and distress. It’s only logical that your mind would try to circumvent any situation that could possibly pose the same threat.”

Jemma tries to swallow around what feels like a mouth full of sand. “So any attempt to tell Fitz how I feel will only end in crippling fear and anxiety?”

She tries to wrap her mind around the idea of feeling this way for the rest of her life: loving Fitz, and never being able to tell him so.

“At first, yes, that may be true,” Dr. Garner answers honestly. “Our sense of self-preservation is powerful and hard to overcome, but it can be done.”

Jemma perks up again. “How?”

“Tell him anyway.”

She visibly sags in her seat. “Yeah, thanks for that. Very helpful bit of advice, that.”

Dr. Garner laughs. “The only way to get past this is to retrain yourself. With time and patience, you can teach your brain to think differently. You can replace the negative triggers with positive ones, and reinforce them with repetition.”

Jemma licks her lips. “And how would I do that, exactly?”

“Tell Fitz how you feel. Pick a quiet moment, the more unremarkable the better. Go about your day. When nothing bad happens, your brain will file the moment away in the positive category, and then you build on it. Tell him again, and again, until the backlog of positive overwhelms the negative. The key here is to tell him when things are normal and fairly stable. I know it can be tempting, but don’t say it in moments of high stress.”

“So casually dropping the I love you bomb whilst, say, disarming a real bomb would be a bad idea?”

Jemma is proud of herself for the quip. She has only recently begun to feel like teasing people again, and does so sparingly.

Dr. Garner smiles. “Yes. Also, before and after a mission is generally not advised, and neither is during a fight. At least in the beginning. It’s important that the moments you choose fall strictly into the positive category until your brain learns to put them there automatically.”

“Right. Thank you, Dr. Garner.”

Their sessions aren’t entirely over, of course. Jemma has to do weekly conference calls with the doctor for the next few months, but he says she’s doing well and they might be able to push it back to bi-weekly sooner than that.

Jemma walks out of the session feeling like she’s earned a small victory over herself. There is work to do – there will always be work to do now – but she knows how to get it done, and she’s determined to do so.

She’s light again as she leaves Dr. Garner’s presence. Her thoughts are full of the good doctor’s advice and leave no room for the darkness that plagues her so often these days; Jemma is so preoccupied she nearly runs right into Fitz.

“Oh!” she gasps.

“Everything okay?” Fitz asks quickly.

“Yeah, fine.” She smiles, and the bubbles in her stomach fizz and pop.

“Good, good. Daisy was just lookin’ for ya, things are slow and she was, uh, wanting to watch a movie or something.”

“Movie, right. Sounds good. Should we go and find her then?”

“We? Oh, uh …”

“Aren’t you going to be there?”

“Should I be? I mean, do you want me to be there?”

Jemma huffs in indignation, but her lips pull up in a smirk. “’Course I do. I …” 

The words are right there on the tip of her tongue, but they stick and congeal like molasses in a snowstorm. Her heart beats faster; the moment passes.

* * *

  
It’s a bit of a game after that. Jemma will watch Fitz working in the lab and her lips form the first words, only to freeze at the first hint of sound; she calls his name to get his attention and then dismisses the moment with a quick, “never mind”, instead of what she really wants to say.

Fitz might find it strange, maybe, but he never lets on. He holds her hand through a panic attack, and pulls her into his room to fall asleep in his arms when she has a nasty nightmare, and leaves her alone when the sensory input threatens to short circuit her system. He is quiet, and steady, and takes what she gives without any expectation for more; he’s her best friend, and confidante, and so much more.

The moment feels like it’ll never come, but it does. It’s not perfect, and it’s not the way Jemma hopes it’ll happen, but the fact that it happens at all is what matters.

They are in the common area again (and really, isn’t that sort of fitting, that the scene of one of her worst moments – a massive negative, should become the launching ground for her first positive?). They aren’t alone as Jemma had hoped; Daisy is sitting on one of the tables, ankles crossed and legs swinging idly as she eats a muffin; Bobbi is sipping from a cup of coffee. Fitz has just handed her a cup of tea, and is stirring his own. The motion sends gossamer threads of steam twining through the air.

“I’m just saying that it would help if we could free up some time in the lab, that’s all,” Fitz is saying. “It’s infuriating how much time I have to spend going back and forth for tools and equipment.”

“That’s what lab assistants are for, Fitz,” Bobbi points out.

“Yeah, I know, but they just get in the way. We need something that’s small but can carry things, something …”

“What about the Dwarfs?” Daisy supplies. “Can’t you just, like, rig them to be able to carry things or something? Or what about a little robot, ya know, like those ones in the robot fights or whatever.”

Fitz glares at Daisy like he’s about to chide her, but Jemma isn’t paying attention. She’s remembering something from forever ago, something that hasn’t happened in so long that she’s forgotten about it until this moment. It seems silly, and childish, a desire from a simpler time – and it makes Jemma’s heart float in her chest.

“If we had a monkey,” Jemma starts softly, and Bobbi misses it but Fitz and Daisy snap their heads up to look at her, “A monkey could do it.”

There’s a pause after the words; a beat of silence in which Daisy’s mouth drops open a little and starts to form a smile, and then Fitz lets out a surprised laugh.

“A monkey,” he repeats. His face is radiant and his eyes are soft, brighter for the glow of his expression. “Now you want a monkey.”

It’s inelegant; it’s probably not romantic at all. Jemma watches the turn of Fitz’ countenance and hears the sound of his laugh – the disbelieving and incredulous humor he directs her way – and her heart might beat faster, but her throat stays open and the words just roll off her tongue.

“I love you, Fitz.”

Someone gasps. Maybe it’s Fitz; his bottom lip falls away from the top one and he stares at her in … she’s not sure. Stunned incomprehension might be the best description.

“You what?” Fitz says stupidly.

Jemma’s breathless, but she manages a chuckle even as the tears rise to her eyes. She’s finally gotten the words out; she’s finally here, in a calm moment on a Tuesday evening when no one is facing their doom.

 _Do something!_ Fitz had screamed at the monolith, and it hadn’t but, oh, they have. They’ve fought so hard to just be here, changed and scarred and more different than they could ever have imagined; they’ve overcome oceans, and betrayals, and planets.

They’ve overcome themselves.

Jemma crosses the space to him, and Fitz meets her halfway.

“Jemma …”

“I mean it, Fitz,” she interrupts. “I …” her brain has caught on to what’s happening and there’s a thickness in her throat that wasn’t there a moment ago, but Jemma will not be silenced. “I love you.”

Fitz might cry. There’s a noticeable sheen to his eyes and Jemma knows that she looks much the same, and there’s so much force and weight to this small eternity that crying might be all they can do.

Fitz doesn’t cry, though. He searches her expression once, twice, and then he frames her face with scratchy but gentle hands and kisses her with abandon. It’s not what Jemma expects, but it’s everything she’s been waiting (and hoping) for. His lips are soft and insistent, and Jemma tethers herself to him and lets go of everything else.

Fitz is the first to pull away. He leans his forehead against hers and breathes shakily, a warm wind that ghosts over her lips and chin; his hands come away from her face only to resettle against her neck, where his thumbs brush gently over her jawline and pulse point.

“I love you too,” he manages.

“The world didn’t end,” she whispers, and they both laugh and cling to each other like it might do so in the next moment.

Fitz holds Jemma tight to his chest and breathes in the scent of her shampoo. He’s a weather balloon floating through the atmosphere, a silk parachute that flutters down slowly through the clouds and lands instinctively in Jemma’s arms.

He’s never needed to save Jemma from the demons in her mind, because she’s done that herself. With painstaking effort and faulty steps they have redefined themselves and each other, and though their foundation is solid they now know how to walk on fractured ground.

They have made their way through the ruins to find themselves, at last, together on the edge of something beautiful.

“Now, about that monkey.”


End file.
